Cornwell,Patricia - The Hornet's Nest

The Hornet's Nest

Patricia Cornwell

Synopsis:

Chapter One.

That morning, summer sulked and gathered darkly over Charlotte, and heat shimmered

on pavement. Traffic teemed, people pushing forward to promise as they drove through

new construction, and the past was bulldozed away. The US Bank Corporate Center

soared sixty stories above downtown, topped by a crown that looked like organ pipes

playing a hymn to the god of money. This was a city of ambition and change. It had

grown so fast, it could not always find its own streets. Like a boy in puberty, it was

rapidly unfolding and clumsy at times, and a little too full of what its original settlers had

called pride.

The city and its county were named for Princess Charlotte Sophia of Mecklenburg-

Strelitz before she became George Ill's queen. The Germans, who wanted the same

freedoms the Scotch-Irish did, were one thing. The English were another. When Lord

Cornwallis decided to come to town in 1780 and occupied what became known as the

Queen City, he was met with such hostility by these stubborn Presbyterians that he

dubbed Charlotte 'the hornet's nest of America. " Two centuries later, the swarming

symbol was the official seal of the city and its NBA basketball team and the police

department that protected all.

It was the white whirling dervish against midnight blue that Deputy Chief Virginia West

wore on the shoulders of her crisp white uniform shirt with all its brass. Most cops,

frankly, had not a clue as to what the symbol meant. Some thought it was a tornado, a

white owl, a beard. Others were certain it had to do with sports events in the coliseum or

the new two-hundredandthirty-million- dollar stadium that hovered downtown like an

alien spacecraft. But West had been stung more than once and knew exactly what the

hornet's nest was about. It was what awaited her when she drove to work and read the

Charlotte Observer every morning. Violence swarmed, and everybody talked at once.

This Monday, she was in a dark angry mood, ready to really stir things up.

The city police department recently had relocated to the new pearly concrete complex

known as the Law Enforcement Center, or LEC, in the heart of downtown on Trade

Street, the very road British oppressors long ago had followed into town. Construction in

the area seemed endless, as if change were a virus taking over West's life. Parking at the

LEC remained a mess, and she had not completely moved into her office yet. There were

plenty of mud puddles, and dust, and her unmarked car was new and a striking uniform

blue that sent her to the carwash at least three times a week.

When she reached the reserved parking spaces in front of the LEC, she couldn't believe it.

Occupying her spot was a drug dealer's set of chrome mags and parrot-green iridescent

paint, a Suzuki, which she knew people flipped over in more ways than one.

"Goddamn it!" She looked around, as if she might recognize the person who had dared

this perpetration.

Other cops were pulling in and out, and transporting prisoners in this constantly moving

department of sixteen hundred police and un sworn support. For a moment, West sat and

scanned, teased by the aroma of the Bojangles bacon and egg biscuit that by now was

cold. Settling on a fifteen-minute slot in front of sparkling glass doors, she parked and

climbed out, doing the best she could with briefcase, pocketbook, files, newspapers,

breakfast, a large coffee.

She slammed her door shut with a hip as the dude she was looking for emerged from the

building. He was jailing, jeans at low tide in that cool lockup look of six inches of pastel

undershorts showing. The fashion statement got started in jail when inmates had their

belts confiscated so they wouldn't hang themselves or someone else. The trend had

crossed over every racial and socioeconomic line until half of the city's pants were falling

off. West did not understand it. She left her car right where it was, fought with her

armload as the dude mumbled good morning, trotting past.

"Brewster!" Her voice halted him like a pointed gun.

"What the hell you think you're doing parking in my space!"

He grinned, flashing rings and a fake Rolex as he swept arms open wide, the pistol

beneath his jacket peeking out.

"Look around. Tell me what you see. Not one damn parking place in all of Charlotte."

"That's why important people like me are assigned one," she said to this detective she

supervised as she tossed him her keys.

"Bring them back when you've moved my car," she ordered.

West was forty-two, a woman who still turned heads and had never been married to

anything beyond what she thought she was here on earth to do. She had deep red hair, a

little unattended and longer than she liked it, her eyes dark and quick, and a serious body

that she did not deserve, for she did nothing to maintain curves and straightness in the

right places. She wore her uniform in a way that made other women want one, but that

was not why she chose police blues over plain clothes. She supervised more than three

hundred wiseass investigators like Ronald Brewster who needed every reminder of law

and order West could muster.

Cops greeted her on her way in. She turned right, headed to offices where Chief Judy

Hammer decided everything that mattered in law enforcement in this hundred-mile area

of almost six million people.

West loved her boss but right now didn't like her. West knew why she had been called in

early for a meeting, and it was a situation beyond reason or her control. This was insane.

She walked into Hammer's outer office, where Captain Fred Horgess was talking on the

phone. He held his hand over the receiver and shook his head in a there's nothing I can

do way to West as she walked up to the dark wooden door, where Hammer's name was

announced brightly in brass.

"It's not good," he warned with a shrug.

"Why is it I didn't need you to tell me that?" West irritably said.

Balancing her burdens, she knocked with the toe of her Bates hi-gloss black

shoe and nudged up the door handle with a knee, coffee almost spilling but caught in

time. Inside, Hammer sat behind her overwhelmed desk, surrounded by framed

photographs of children and grand babies her mission statement, Prevent the Next Crime,

on the wall behind her.

She was early fifties, in a smart hounds tooth business suit, her

telephone line buzzing relentlessly, but she had more important matters on her mind at

the moment.

West dumped her load on one chair and sat in another one near the brass Winged Victory

award the Inter national Association of Chiefs of Police had presented to Hammer last

year. She had never bothered to get a stand or give it an honored place. In fact, the

trophy, which was three feet high, continued to occupy the same square of carpet next to

her desk, as if waiting for a ride to someplace better. Judy Hammer won such things

because she wasn't motivated by them. West removed the lid off her coffee, and steam

wafted up.

"I already know what this is about," she said, 'and you know what I think. "

Hammer gestured to silence her. She leaned forward, folding her hands on top of her

desk.

"Virginia. At long last I have gotten the support of city council, the city manager, the

mayor," she started to say.

"And every one of them, including you, is wrong," West said, stirring cream and sugar

into her coffee.

"I can't believe you've talked them into this, and I can tell you right now, they're going to

find some way to screw it up because they don't really want it to happen. You shouldn't

want it to happen, either. It's a damn conflict of interests for a police reporter to become

a volunteer cop and go out on the street with us."

Paper crackled as West unwrapped a greasy Bojangles biscuit that Hammer would never

raise to her lips, not even back in the old days when she was underweight and on her feet

all day long, working the jail, juvenile division, crime analysis, records, inspections, auto

theft, all those exciting assignments women got back in the days when they weren't

allowed in patrol. She did not believe in fat.

"I mean, come on!" West said after a bite.

"The last Observer cop reporter screwed us so bad you sued the newspaper."

Hammer did not like to think about Weinstein, the worthless wonder, a criminal, really,

whose MO was to walk into the duty captain's office or the investigative division when

no one was around. He stole reports right off desks, printers, and fax machines. This

collaborative behavior culminated in his writing a front-page Sunday profile about

Hammer, claiming she commandeered the police helicopter for personal use. She

ordered off-duty cops to chauffeur her and do domestic jobs around her house. When her

daughter was picked up for drunk driving, Hammer had the charges fixed. None of it was

true. She did not even have a daughter.

Hammer got up, clearly frustrated and disturbed by the mess the world was in. She

looked out a window, hands in the pockets of her skirt, her back to West.

"The Charlotte Observer, the city, think we don't understand them or care," she started

her evangelism again.

"And I know they don't understand us. Or care."

West crumpled breakfast trash, and scored two points in disgust.

"All the Observer cares about is winning another Pulitzer Prize," she said.

Hammer turned around, as serious as West had ever seen her.

"I had lunch with the new publisher yesterday. First time any of us have had a civilized

conversation with anyone from there in a decade, at least.

A miracle. " She began her habitual pacing, gesturing with passion. She loved her

mission in life.

"We really want to try this. Could it blow up in our faces? Absolutely." She paused.

"But what if it worked? Andy Brazil ..."

"Who?" West scowled.

"Very, very determined," Hammer went on, 'completed our academy for volunteers,

highest marks we've ever had. Impressed the hell out of the instructors. Does that mean

he won't burn us, Virginia? No, no. But what I'm not going to have is this young

reporter out there screwing up an investigation, getting the wrong view of what we do.

He's not going to be lied to, stonewalled, hit on, hurt. "

West put her head in her hands, groaning. Hammer returned to her desk and sat.

"If this goes well," the chief went on, 'think how good it could be for the department, for

community policing here and around the world.

How many times have I heard you say, "If only every citizen could ride just one night

with us" "

"I'll never say it again." West meant it.

Hammer leaned over her desk, pointing her ringer at a deputy chief she admired and

sometimes wanted to shake for thinking too small.

"I want you out on the street again," she ordered.

"With Andy Brazil. Give him a dose he won't forget."

"Goddamn it, Judy!" West exclaimed.

"Don't do this to me. I'm up to my ears decentralizing investigations. The street crime

unit's all screwed up, two of my captains out. Goode and I can't agree on anything, as

usual ..."

Hammer wasn't listening. She put on reading glasses, and began reviewing a memo.

"Set it up today," she said.

Andy Brazil ran hard and fast. He blew out loudly, checking the time on his Casio watch

as he sprinted around the Davidson College track, in the small town of the same name,

north of the big city. It was here he had grown up and gone to school on tennis and

academic scholarships. He had lived at the college all his life, really, in a dilapidated

frame house on Main Street, across from a cemetery that, like the recently turned coed

school, was older than the Civil War.

Until several years ago, his mother had worked in the college food service, and Brazil

had grown up on the campus, watching rich kids and Rhodes scholars on their way in a

hurry. Even when he was about to graduate magna cum laude, some of his classmates,

usually the cheerleaders, thought he was a townie. They flirted with him as he ladled eggs

and grits on their plates. They were always startled in a dense sort of way when he

trotted past in a hallway, loaded with books and afraid of being late to class.

Brazil had never felt he belonged here or anywhere, really. It was as if he watched

people through a pane of glass. He could not touch others no matter how hard he tried,

and they could not touch him, unless they were mentors. He had been falling in love with

teachers, coaches, ministers, campus security, administrators, deans, doctors, nurses since

he could remember. They were accepting, even appreciative, of his unusual reflections

and solitary peregrinations, and the writings he shyly shared when he visited after hours,

usually bearing limeades from the M&M soda shop or cookies from his mother's kitchen.

Brazil, simply put, was a writer, a scribe of life and all in it. He had accepted his calling

with humility and a brave heart.

It was too early for anybody else to be out this morning except a faculty wife whose

lumpy shape would never be transformed by anything but death, and two other women in

baggy sweats breathlessly complaining about the husbands who made it possible for them

to be walking while most of the world worked. Brazil wore a Charlotte Observer T-shirt

and shorts, and looked younger than twenty-two. He was handsome and fierce, with

cheekbones high, hair streaked blond, body firm and athletically splendid. He did not

seem aware of how others reacted to the sight of him, or perhaps it didn't matter. Mostly,

his attention was elsewhere.

Brazil had been writing ever since he could, and when he had looked for a job after

graduating from Davidson, he had promised Observer publisher Richard Panesa that if

Panesa would give Brazil a chance, the newspaper would not be sorry. Panesa had hired

him as a TV Week clerk, updating TV shows and movie blurbs. Brazil hated typing in

programming updates for something he did not even watch. He did not like the other

clerks or his hypertensive, overweight editor. Other than a promised cover story one of

these days, there was no future for Brazil, and he began going to the newsroom at four in

the morning so he could have all of the updates completed by noon.

The rest of the day he would roam desk to desk, begging for garbage-picking stories the

seasoned reporters wanted to duck. There were always plenty of those. The business

desk tossed him the scoop on Ingersoll-Rand's newest air compressor. Brazil got to cover

the Ebony fashion show when it came to town, and the stamp collectors, and the world

championship backgammon tournament at the Radisson Hotel. He interviewed wrestler

Rick Flair with his long platinum hair when he was the celebrity guest at the Boy Scout

convention. Brazil covered the Coca-Cola 600, interviewing spectators drinking beer

while stock cars blasted past.

He turned in a hundred hours' overtime five months in a row, writing more stories than

most of Panesa's reporters. Panesa held a meeting, gathering the executive editor,

managing editor, and features editor behind closed doors to discuss the idea of making

Brazil a reporter when his first six months were up. Panesa couldn't wait to see Brazil's

reaction, knowing he would be thrilled beyond belief when Panesa offered him general

assignment. Brazil wasn't.

Brazil had already applied to the Charlotte Police Department's academy for volunteers.

He had passed the background check, and was enrolled in the class that was to start the

following spring. In the meantime, his plan was to carry on with his usual boring job

with the TV magazine because the hours were flexible. Upon graduation, Brazil hoped

the publisher would give him the police beat, and Brazil would do his job for the paper

and keep up his volunteer hours at the same time. He would write the most informed and

insightful police stories the city had ever seen. If the Observer wouldn't go along with

this, Brazil would find a news organization that would, or he would become a cop. No

matter how anybody looked at it, Andy Brazil would not be told no.

The morning was hot and steamy, and sweat was streaming as he began his sixth mile,

looking at graceful antebellum buildings of ivy and brick, at the Chambers classroom

building with its dome, and the indoor tennis center where he had battled other college

students as if losing meant death. He had spent his life fighting for the right to move

ahead eighteen miles, along 1-77, to South Tryon Street, in the heart of the city, where he

could write for a living. He remembered when he first started driving to Charlotte when

he was sixteen, when the skyline was simple, downtown a place to go. Now it seemed an

over achieving stone and glass empire that kept growing. He wasn't sure he liked it much

anymore. He wasn't sure it liked him, either.

Mile eight, he dropped in the grass and began plunging into push-ups.

Arms were strong and sculpted, with veins that gracefully fed his strength. Hair on wet

skin was gold, his face red. He rolled over on his back and breathed good air, enjoying

the afterglow. Slowly, he sat up, stretching, easing himself into the vertical position that

meant getting on with it.

Andy Brazil trotted back to his twenty-five year-old black BMW 2002 parked on the

street. It was waxed, and shellacked with Armor All, the original blue and white emblem

on the hood worn off forever ago and lovingly retouched with model paint. The car had

almost a hundred and twenty thousand miles on it, and something broke about once a

month, but Brazil could fix anything. Inside, the interior was saddle leather, and there

was a new police scanner and a two-way radio. He wasn't due on his beat until four, but

he rolled into his very own spot- at noon. He was the Observer's police reporter and got

to park in a special spot near the door, so he could take off in a hurry when trouble blew.

The instant he entered the lobby, he smelled newsprint and ink the way a creature smells

blood. The scent excited him like police lights and sirens, and he was happy because the

guard in the console didn't make him sign in anymore. Brazil took the escalator, trotting

up moving rhetal stairs, as if he was late somewhere. People were statues coming down

the other side. They glanced curiously at him. Everyone in the Observer newsroom

knew who Brazil was, and he had no friends.

The newsroom was big and drab, filled with the sounds of keys clicking, phones ringing,

and printers grabbing fast-breaking stories off the wire. Reporters were intense in front of

computer screens, flipping through notepads with the paper's name on cardboard covers.

They walked around, and the woman who covered local politics was running out the door

after a scoop. Brazil still could not believe he was a player in this important, heady

world, where words could change destinies and the way people thought. He thrived on

drama, perhaps because he had been fed it since birth, although not generally in a good

way.

His new desk was in the metro section, just beyond the glass-enclosed office of the

publisher, Panesa, who Brazil liked and was desperate to impress. Panesa was a

handsome man, with silver-blond hair, and a lean look that had not become less striking

as he had skated beyond forty.

The publisher stood tall and straight in fine suits dark blue or black, and wore cologne.

Brazil thought Panesa wise but had no reason to know it yet.

Each Sunday, Panesa had a column in the Sunday paper, and women in the greater

Charlotte area wrote fan letters and secretly wondered what Richard Panesa was like in

bed, or at least Brazil imagined this was so. Panesa was in a meeting when Brazil sat

behind his desk and covertly glanced into the publisher's transparent kingdom as Brazil

tried to look busy opening notepads, drawers, glancing at old printouts of long-published

stories. It did not escape Panesa's notice that his boyish, intense police reporter had

arrived four hours early his first day on his new beat. Panesa was not surprised.

The first item on Brazil's agenda was that Tommy Axel had left another 7-Eleven rose on

Brazil's desk. It had the sad, unhealthy complexion of the people who shopped in

establishments that sold dark red, tightly furled passion at the counter for a dollar ninety-

eight. It was still wrapped in clear plastic, and Axel had stuck it inside a Snapple bottle

filled with water. Axel was the music critic, and Brazil knew he was watching this very

minute from not very far away, in features. Brazil slid a cardboard box out from under

his desk.

He had not finished moving in, not that the task was especially formidable. But he had

been assigned nothing yet and had finished the first draft of a self-assigned piece on what

it had been like to go through the volunteer police academy. He could add and cut and

polish only so many times, and was terrified by the thought of sitting in the newsroom

with nothing to do. He had made it a habit to scan all six editions of the newspaper from

wooden spools near the city directories. He often read the bulletin board, checked his

empty mailbox, and had been meticulous and deliberately slow in moving his

professional possessions the very short distance of forty-five feet.

This included a Rolodex with few meaningful phone numbers, for how to reach television

networks and various shows, and stamp collectors or Rick Flair, was of little importance

now. Brazil had plenty of notepads, pens, pencils, copies of his stories, city maps, and

almost all of it could fit in the briefcase he had found on sale at Belk department store

when he had been hired. It was glossy burgundy leather with brass clasps, and he felt

very proud when he gripped it.

He had no photographs to arrange on his desk, for he was an only child and had no pets.

It entered his mind that he might call his house to check on things. When Brazil had

returned from the track to shower and change, his mother had been doing the usual,

sleeping on the couch in the living room, TV loudly tuned in to a soap opera she would

not remember later. Mrs. Brazil watched life every day on Channel 7, and could not

describe a single plot. Television was her only connection to humans, unless she counted

the relationship with her son.

Half an hour after Brazil appeared in the newsroom, the telephone rang on his desk,

startling him. He snatched it up, pulse trotting ahead as he glanced around, wondering

who knew he worked here.

"Andy Brazil," he said very professionally.

The heavy breathing was recognizable, the voice of the same pervert who had been

calling for months. Brazil could hear her lying on her bed, sofa, fainting couch, wherever

she got the job done.

"In my hand," the pervert said in her low, creepy tone.

"Got it.

Sliding in, out like a trombone . "

Brazil dropped the receiver into its cradle and shot Axel an accusing glance, but Axel was

talking to the food critic. This was the first time in Brazil's life that he had ever gotten

obscene phone calls. The only other situation to come even close was when he was

blasting his BMW at the Wash & Shine in nearby Cornelius one day and a pasty-faced

creep in a yellow VW bug pulled up and asked him if he wanted to earn twenty dollars.

Brazil's first thought was he was being offered a job washing the guy's car since Brazil

was doing such a fine job on his own. This had been wrong. Brazil had turned the high

pressure wand on the guy for free. He had memorized the creep's plate number and still

had it in his wallet, waiting for the day when he could get him locked up. What the man

in the VW bug had proposed was a crime against nature, an ancient North Carolina law

no one could interpret. But what he had wanted in exchange for his cash had been clear.

Brazil could not fathom why anyone would want to do such a thing to a stranger. He

wouldn't even drink out of the same bottle with most people he knew.

Brazil was not naive, but his sexual experiences at Davidson had been more incomplete

than those of his roommate, this he knew. The last semester of his senior year, Brazil had

spent most nights in the men's room inside Chambers. There was a perfectly comfortable

couch in there, and while his roommate slept with a girlfriend, Brazil slept with books.

No one was the wiser, except the custodians, who routinely saw Brazil coming out of, not

going into, the building around six o'clock every morning as he headed back to the

second floor of the condemned building he and his roommate shared on Main Street.

Certainly, Brazil had his own small private space in this dump, but walls were very thin

and it was difficult to concentrate when Jennifer and Todd were active. Brazil could hear

every word, everything they did.

Brazil dated Sophie, from San Diego, on and off during college. He did not fall in love

with her, and this made her desire uncontrollable. It more or less ruined her Davidson

career. First she lost weight. When that didn't work, she gained it. She took up smoking,

and quit, got mononucleosis and got better, went to a therapist and told him all about it.

None of this turned out to be the aphrodisiac Sophie had hoped, and their sophomore

year, she stabilized and slept with her piano teacher during Christmas break. She

confessed her sin to Brazil.

She and Brazil started making out in her Saab and her dorm room.

Sophie was experienced, rich, and premed She was more than willing to patiently explain

anatomical realities, and he was open to research he really did not need.

At one p. m. " Brazil had just logged onto his computer and gone into his basket to

retrieve his police academy story, when his editor sat next to him. Ed Packer was at least

Cornwell, Patricia - The Hornet's Nest

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